Page 19 of The Summer We Lie

"Mom!" I call, walking in the back door. "Justin!"

I shut the door behind me and kick off my shoes, then pad across the house in search of my family. After the disaster of last night, Harper and I slept in and came home today. Once we got back to our apartment, we both showered and got ready to see our moms for the last time for about three months. Harper drove us to her house, and I walked the short distance down the street to mine. We're both staying the night at our respective homes, but Harper's car is already packed with our luggage so we can go directly to the airport in the morning.

"Mom?" I call again when I reach upstairs.

"In my room," she calls back.

I pass by Justin's room where he's lying on his bed, headphones on, completely absorbed in his drawing. His face carries that intense focus that always makes me smile—when he's in his art zone, the rest of the world disappears. I continue down the hallway to Mom's room where she's folding laundry, neat piles of clothes arranged on her faded comforter.

"Hey, hey," I say, walking over to her bed and sitting down.

"Hey Hun. Are you all packed and ready to leave in the morning?" she asks, smoothing a hand over one of Justin's t-shirts before adding it to his pile.

"Yep," I say, popping the 'p' sound. "Are you sure it's okay? What if you need help?"

"I'm sure. I'm off work during the summer so I'll be able to be home more, and you more than deserve the vacation. You're kicking butt in college with your straight A's."

"Thanks," I say, picking at a loose thread on the bedspread. "Have you heard anything from Dad?"

"No, but I got a lawyer to divorce him and get child support for your brother."

My head snaps up. "You can afford a lawyer?"

"Not really," she says with a small sigh. "But Mary, the science teacher? Her husband is a divorce lawyer. He's doing it, and I can pay what I can here and there."

"Well, that's awesome news," I say, relief washing over me. Finally, some progress.

She smiles. "Yep, every little bit helps. Come on, help me make dinner. We're doing hamburger steaks with mashed potatoes and cheddar broccoli."

"Yummy," I say, getting up.

We spend the next hour in the kitchen cooking with Mom's low country music playing in the background. The familiar rhythm of working beside her—her chopping vegetables while I mash potatoes, both of us swaying slightly to the music—settles something in me. For a little while, I can forget about the disaster of last night, forget about the financial pressure, forget about everything except the comforting smell of home cooking and the sound of my mother humming along to the radio.

After everything is ready, I go upstairs to get Justin.

"Hey turd, dinner's done," I say, pulling his headphones off. I notice the drawing he's working on—a big city with cars and buses on the road, people walking on the sidewalk, and what looks like a homeless guy sitting with his dog. The detail is incredible, each face containing its own story, each building with its own personality.

"This is amazing," I tell him honestly.

"Thanks," he says, getting up and stretching. "I'm starving. What's for dinner?"

As we sit down at the table, I notice Mom pouring two glasses of red wine, setting them in front of our plates with a small smile. It's a rare treat—we don't often drink alcohol—and the gesture feels like a tiny celebration of my impending trip.

"I want a glass," Justin says, eyeing our wine with curiosity.

Mom laughs, the sound warm and familiar. "You're too young."

"So is Skye," he points out, completely serious.

"Yes, but she's an adult. You're not," Mom counters, serving the hamburger steaks onto our plates.

I take a small sip, the wine a bit too dry for my taste but not terrible. "You won't like it anyway," I tell him, knowing his preference for sweet drinks.

"Let me see," he insists.

Mom nods her permission, so I hand him my glass. Justin examines it with scientific precision, first smelling it carefully like he's seen people do in movies, then taking a tiny experimental sip. His face contorts almost immediately as he hands the glass back to me.

"Yuck," he declares after swallowing with visible effort. "That's disgusting." He grabs his milk and chugs it down like an antidote.